


Capitulation

by moonblossom



Series: Pyrexia [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha!Omega!John, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Anal Sex, Banter, Bets, Fluff, Heat Sex, Humour, Intersex, Knotting, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Omegaverse, Oral Sex, PWP, Porn with Feelings, Red Pants, Red Pants Monday, Smut, Teasing, UST, all the sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-14
Updated: 2013-12-14
Packaged: 2018-01-04 14:00:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1081845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonblossom/pseuds/moonblossom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This bet may have been the worst idea John's ever had. Shame he can't just give up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Pure, unadulterated witty banter and O-verse smut. No redeeming value whatsoever, here. Move along, nothing to see. Except gorgeous naked men making each other frustrated and aroused, but now why would you want to see that?
> 
> Thanks to Urban for looking this over. Any remaining fuck-ups are entirely my own.

Sherlock's got no case on, and so far this morning he's politely informed John that he's bored no less than seventeen times since they got out of bed. John loves him, but there's only so much a man can take. Grumbling good-naturedly, he lifts Sherlock's feet out of his lap and gets up off the sofa, heading into the kitchen to make some toast.

Apparently unwilling to break physical contact, Sherlock follows, one hand fisted into the back of John's shirt. John rolls his eyes.

"Can I help you, Sherlock?"

"Booooored."

"Really? I had no idea. Thank you for the update."

As he's leaning over the counter, sliding the toast into the toaster, John feels Sherlock's tongue carefully tracing the vertebrae at the base of his neck, just above the collar of his shirt. At least, he bloody well hopes it's Sherlock's tongue, otherwise he's going to have to change the front door locks again.

"Wasn't this morning enough for you?"

Sherlock's reply is an irritated huff of breath, cool and tickling against the damp skin of his neck.

"I'm not as young as I was, Sherlock. Can't we just have a quiet morning of doing nothing?"

"I _hate_ doing nothing."

The toaster dings, and John grabs his two slices before turning around to face Sherlock.

"You hate doing nothing when it's convenient for you to hate doing nothing. When you have things to do that don't interest you, you are an expert in doing nothing."

For all his gentle teasing though, John can tell that one of Sherlock's black moods is setting in. If they don't get a case on in the next few days before his heat starts, John may have to resort to something drastic to keep Sherlock from going 'round the bend.

As he's thinking, he feels Sherlock's fingers, long and cool and smooth, insinuating their way up under his shirt. The contact is lovely, even if John's not particularly in the mood.

That's when it hits him. Sherlock's clearly feeling frisky, and he's looking for a distraction. John thinks he knows a way to deal with both problems at once.

"You know, for someone who was gloating the other day about having so much more restraint than his brother, you're awful at it. You know. Being restrained."

Sherlock pulls back, giving John a bit more room to breathe, but his fingers remain flat against John's belly.

"Are you saying I can't control myself where you're involved?" Sherlock raises an eyebrow. He doesn't look irritated yet, thankfully. He looks intrigued. John presses on.

"Sherlock, that is _exactly_ what I am saying. I don't think you could go a day without putting your paws on me at least once."

As soon as the words are out of John's mouth, Sherlock pulls his hands away and stuffs them into his pockets.

"I think you suffer from the same affliction, my dear doctor."

John can't help but roll his eyes at this. He loves touching Sherlock, of course he does. For someone who claims to be so remote, Sherlock is surprisingly tactile and responds in lovely ways when John pats him, even if it's not the least bit sexual. However, he's never as _needy_ about the contact as Sherlock is, not even during his heats.

"I don't have it anywhere near as bad as you do."

A dour expression crosses Sherlock's refined features. "Nonsense. I could go a week without touching you."

"Alright then," John nods. "You're on."

"Pardon?"

"You heard me. Whoever touches the other one first loses. Only instead of a week..." John cringes, because he knows what he's about to propose is going to be just as difficult -- if not more so -- for him as it is for Sherlock.

"I'm about due for my next heat. They run about four days. Four days. No fondling."

The look on Sherlock's face is priceless, and John barks out a laugh. His need to win anything presented as a competition is warring with his need for physical affection, and for a moment John thinks the latter might just win out. He's almost relieved. Unfortunately, Sherlock's competitive side wins out. He scowls.

"I think that is a reasonable wager. I'll agree to it."

"Excellent. I think we should establish some ground rules now," John says, pulling a pen and a notebook out of one of the kitchen drawers. He sits down at the table, taking a moment to watch Sherlock spin his chair around deftly before sitting on it backwards. John's eyes slide downwards, distracted momentarily by the wide vee of Sherlock's thighs, his tantalisingly hidden in shadow. Sherlock catches him staring and smirks.

"Shut it."

"I didn't say anything, John."

"You were thinking it."

"Mm, that I was."

John grunts and opens the notebook, not bothering to engage Sherlock any further.

"Rule one. No physical contact whatsoever."

"I think that's asking a bit much. We live in close quarters, and what if I need you to get my phone out of my pocket?"

"Could you not interrupt for once in your life? You can get your own bloody phone. No touching. And before you ask, that goes for everything. No tongues. No sticking your stupid toes up my shirt." John continues transcribing the rules into the notebook.

"Contest is to start the morning my heat begins, and end either when it's over or when you capitulate, whichever comes first." He underlines the last bit with a flourish, and Sherlock chuckles.

"Cocky, aren't we?" Sherlock asks, but he nods in assent, before adding a rule of his own. "No orgasms."

"Well, if you think you can get me off without touching me at all, good for you, but I sort of assumed that was part of the deal."

A slow, sneaky grin creeps across Sherlock's face. "John, you misunderstand. No orgasms at all. Not by my hand, and not by your own."

John blanches for a moment. How's he supposed to get through the maddening haze of his heat without any relief? Sherlock seems to know he's scored a point, because he lets out a deep, throaty laugh. John refuses to let Sherlock get the better of him. Besides, with John's pheromones stinking up the place, it's going to be just as difficult for Sherlock as it is for him.

"Alright then," John says agreeably, scribbling once more in the notebook. "No orgasms. Though that means I need to add another rule of my own. No leaving the flat alone."

Sherlock blinks slowly at John, his expression neutral.

"I know you, Sherlock. If I have a sneaky wank in the shower or whatever you'll be able to read it all over me. I'm not as good at reading you. If you sneak off somewhere, masturbate, and come back home I'll be none the wiser."

The sour look that crosses Sherlock's face confirms to John that this is exactly what Sherlock would have done. Probably in the gents' at the Yard, or Mycroft's office, or some other equally inappropriate locale, because he'd derive some sick glee from it.

"Any other stipulations?"

John pauses, thinking for a moment. Sherlock's a bit of a limpet when they sleep, but then so is John. It's as though their bodies seek each other out, even in slumber.

"Touching during sleep doesn't count. We get all tangled up, as long as nobody sneaks in a grope while pretending to be asleep I think we should be fine."

"Why John, how charitable of you. And here I thought you'd be returning to your bare little garret upstairs at night."

John rolls his eyes. "Nice try, tit. You'd just get yourself off in bed after I leave. Nope. Not happening. I'm sleeping in the same bed as you are."

"Fair enough. I do have one question though. What, exactly, do I stand to gain from this little game of yours?"

"Hm?" John looks up from the notebook, a bit perplexed. "Gain?"

"Why should I be made to suffer if I don't get anything when I win at the end?

"If you win, Sherlock. _If_. Not When."

Sherlock rolls his eyes in lieu of a proper answer.

"Fine then. If you win..." John trails off, attempting to think of a decent prize.

"You get rid of that hideous blue-and-red jumper you wear every Christmas."

John sighs. He's rather fond of that jumper. But he can always just hide it at Harry's. Or Mrs. H would probably foster it for a bit, she likes it. He nods.

"Fine. And if I win, you _wear_ the jumper."

"Don't be ridiculous, it would be far too short for me, especially in the arms. I'd look like an idiot."

"All the more reason not to lose then."

Smirking, John writes down the prize clauses at the bottom of the page. He looks up at Sherlock, who has schooled his face back into neutral impassivity.

"Shall we shake on it, then?" John asks.

"I can think of a better way to seal our deal, if I'm to be without contact in the near future." Sherlock's eyelids droop suggestively, and John fidgets in his seat.

"Oh?"

Without further prompting, Sherlock lunges across the table, lips meeting John's in a sweltering kiss. John gasps slightly and parts his lips, feeling Sherlock's tongue run across his teeth. The kiss is infuriatingly short. Sherlock pulls back and John follows him without thinking, seeking Sherlock's heat.

The smirk on Sherlock's face when he pulls away is absolutely infuriating. This is going to be tougher than John anticipated.


	2. Chapter 2

The next two days pass in relative normalcy. Well, normalcy by 221B standards, in any case. Which means a case involving a necklace disappearing out of a locked security box, a dramatically Sherlockian pronouncement of "Dull, you're idiots, I'm going home to shag John," and, well, Sherlock shagging John. Thoroughly and repeatedly. It's as though they're both working things out of their system before the terms of the bet come into effect.

The third day, John wakes slowly. A quick glance at the clock shows it to be nearly noon. They'd been up late the night before, but John still feels embarrassed by it.

Sherlock is glued to his back, one leg flung possessively over John's hip, and his breath is ruffling the downy hair at the nape of John's neck. There's a heavy warmth in John's belly. A low, creeping, taut sensation that can mean only one thing. He allows himself the indulgence of snuggling with Sherlock for a few seconds before rolling over and stretching.

Sherlock half-wakes and grumbles, somehow conveying an irritated glare in John's direction without ever opening his eyes, and John chuckles.

"Wake up, you. The bet's on."

"Nghh?"

John savours the moments when Sherlock's not quite awake. They're rare, and it's the only time he's ever quite so incoherent. Nobody else gets to see Sherlock like this, and the thought warms John down to his toes.

"I said, the bet is on. Don't make me repeat myself." John teases, throwing Sherlock's oft-spoken mantra back at him.

Sherlock rolls over and is about to elbow John in the ribs when he sits up, suddenly wide awake, realisation in his eyes. "Oh. _Oh._ "

"Yes," John nods. "Oh." The urge to lean over and kiss Sherlock, still flushed and rumpled, proves nearly too much to bear, so John sits up and swings his legs over the edge of the bed. He pulls a loose cotton t-shirt over his head and shuffles blearily into the bathroom, tugging up his pyjama bottoms.

The steady pull of his heat, still simmering gently in his abdomen, is an irritating reminder of what he's chosen to miss out on, but for the time being it's subtle enough that he can ignore it. Besides, he's got plans.

He's been settled down at the desk in the lounge with a mug of coffee for nearly an hour when Sherlock deigns to make an appearance. He's wearing his red bathrobe, a pair of black pyjama trousers low on his hips, and nothing else. The fabric highlights the cool, pale skin of his chest and John knows exactly what Sherlock is up to. He huffs out a laugh and goes back to his typing.

Sherlock throws himself flamboyantly onto the sofa, bathrobe fluttering out behind him. John makes a point of ignoring him as he writes.

_Sherlock,_

_I know you're going to read this. It's fine though, I'm writing it for you. You always accuse me of being overly romantic when I write. I figure it was time to put my talents to use._

_Look at you, you ridiculous piece of work. You're lying on the sofa right now, those long fingers of yours tracing the planes of your stomach, stroking the trail of hair below your navel that I love so much. Mostly because I love where it leads._

_You're beautiful. Not sure why I'm telling you this - you're disturbingly aware of the impact your appearance has on people. Hell, I suspect you're even wearing that robe explicitly because I told you I love what the colour of it does to your cheeks. Vanity, thy name is Holmes._

_If only I hadn't laid out the terms of this stupid bet... The things I could be doing to you right now. I'd start by kneeling over you, straddling you and pinning your arms to your sides. I'd press one soft kiss to either side of your mouth, hopefully to shut you up because no doubt you'd be complaining._

_I'd run my tongue along the edge of your jawbone. You haven't shaved since two nights ago, so it would be a little bit rough. Have I ever told you how much that drives me crazy? In the best possible way. I'd lick and nibble up towards your ear, take your earlobe between my teeth and suck gently. You always gasp a little when I do that. It's such a lovely sound._

_I'd trail my hand down your chest, along that swathe of bare skin that's just begging to be touched. Eventually I'd reach the fine, downy hair just above the waistband of your trousers. I'd love to just trap that between my knuckles and tug gently. You're so beautifully responsive. I'd let go and keep trailing my hand downwards, but over your pyjama bottoms. I'm fairly certain you're not wearing pants, because you're a filthy tease and you came out here like that to try to seduce me._

John fidgets in his seat. Between the hormones flooding through his body and the pictures flooding through his mind, he's already getting quite worked up. He looks over at Sherlock, who smirks at him.

"Looking at pornography, John? How predictable. You're only torturing yourself, since we agreed not to bring ourselves to orgasm."

John shakes his head. "I'm writing."

"What are you writing?" Sherlock raises an eyebrow. "Another terrible blog entry?"

"Nothing to do with you, Sherlock. It's really none of your business." There we go, he's pretty much guaranteed Sherlock will pounce on it as soon as he gets up. Grinning, he turns back to the keyboard.

"John, you are a terrible liar. You _want_ me to read it. Your ploy is as thin as those awful socks you refuse to throw out."

John frowns and wiggles his toes. They are getting a bit worn.

"Maybe I do. I know you will."

"I absolutely will not."

"Will do. The only thing worse than your pride is your curiosity."

Sherlock glowers, throwing one arm dramatically over his head like some flouncing heroine. The motion causes his robe to fall open further and stretches the muscles of his abdomen taut. John's breath catches in his throat, and Sherlock preens smugly, no doubt noticing.

"I hate you, John." The soft, warm tone of his voice indicates nothing of the sort.

"I hate you too, Sherlock." John winks and turns back to his keyboard, putting all his furious energy and arousal into the letter.

_I love the feel of your cock under cotton. Soft and velvety, with just a hint of mystery to it. I bet it would twitch under my hand. Are you hard already, Sherlock? You have such a gloriously vivid imagination. I'm sure you're picturing everything I'm describing, and more, in your head. Speaking of heads, I'd run my thumb over yours, feeling you swelling and hardening. I'd run my fingers up and down the length of your erection, because I'm certain you have one now, and bring my lips back to yours to kiss you, to swallow up the moans you'd be making by now._

_I'd be hard too, aching, and I'd love to just grind myself against you, without even removing our clothing. It's just pyjamas; we can toss them in the laundry. I want to let my heat overpower me, rut up against you like a teenager. I'd wrap my arms around you and buck my hips again and again, rubbing the full length of my throbbing cock against yours. I'd bury my face in your throat, drag my teeth across your collarbone. You'd take pity on me and pull the back of my pyjamas down, because you're clever, and slide both thumbs into my needy, aching arsehole. You'd fuck me with your fingers and I'd ride you like that until we both came, trembling and panting, our fluids spreading across the cotton between us._

_All you need to do is admit that you can't take it, Sherlock. Come up to me, kiss me, tell me I've won. And I'll let you do anything you want to me._

_Yours, always,_  
 _John_

Smirking, John closes the laptop and casts another glance at Sherlock, who is waiting with obvious impatience. He gets up, stretching theatrically. The shirt he's worn is old and has shrunk slightly, and he knows when he raises his arms it exposes a line of skin. Sherlock inevitably knows John is putting on a show, but he revels in it anyway.

"I think I am going to go take a shower."

"Remember, no orgasms."

"Sherlock, you'd be able to tell. I'm not even going to try to trick you." He heads towards the bathroom, and Sherlock doesn't even bother waiting before he scrambles up off the sofa and gets to work cracking John's newest password. The password, for reference, is _IllWinThisBet_. John supposes there's a slight chance that Sherlock's going to sneak a wank in while he's showering, but his grooming habits are still army-efficient and Sherlock tends to luxuriate in that sort of thing when he bothers to indulge at all. Odds are, if Sherlock decides to cheat John will interrupt him anyway.

The shower is efficient and perfunctory, mostly taken as an excuse to leave the room. The hot water feels good on John's shoulders, but he's already worked up from writing that bloody letter and if he loiters in here for any longer than he needs to, he might just cave in. And Sherlock would undoubtedly be able to tell.

In the end, John stays in the shower just long enough to get himself properly clean and to quell his erection somewhat. His heat is continuing to build, the urge to throw himself at Sherlock's mercy and spread his legs starting to come to cohesion in the back of his mind. John shakes his head. This test is a much for him as it is for Sherlock. As much fun as it is to lock themselves away for four days a month and rut like beasts, John's positive he has more willpower than that.

He dries himself off and tosses on a pair of jeans and a jumper, and heads back into the kitchen.

Sherlock is now perched in John's chair, of all places. His face is red and blotchy, and the front of his pyjama bottoms is tented obscenely, pulling away from his stomach. John resists the urge to peer into the shadowy gap. His own cock throbs in sympathy, but mercifully remains otherwise disinterested. The low, sing-song voice in the back of John's head reminds him that this torment could all be done with if he just rolls over and presents himself to Sherlock, but he manages to squelch it back down.

He makes a point of flopping down into Sherlock's chair. "You read it, didn't you?"

Sherlock's glare could freeze a volcano. "Of course I did. Your writing continues to be abominable and overly dramatic." But his voice is ragged and deep, betraying him almost as much as his erection.

"Mm, that's not what your cock thinks."

"My cock doesn't think. That is part of the problem with it."

"I think it's a perfectly lovely cock. Stop insulting it."

"If I continue to hurt its feelings, will you come and kiss it better?"

John rolls his eyes and tosses the union flag cushion at Sherlock playfully. Sherlock catches it without looking up and stuffs it behind the small of his back.

"If you want to continue your childish assault, you'll have to come get the pillow."

"Not falling for that, Sherlock."

Sherlock purses his lips in irritation and pulls his laptop off the floor, wincing when he pinches his erection under it. John grabs a book off a pile next to Sherlock's chair, and finding it to be a rather passable mystery novel Sherlock hasn't yet annotated, he settles in to read quietly for a bit.

It's the changing light of dusk that catches John's eye as he closes the novel. He looks around, realising they've been sitting here in companionable silence for hours now, and not once has he _needed_ Sherlock's physical presence. Things are looking good both for his wager with Sherlock and his wager with himself.

Sherlock looks significantly more composed too, as he closes his laptop and smiles indulgently at John. The look on his face clearly seems to say _See? I can behave when I need to._

John sits up, pushing himself out of Sherlock's deep chair.

"Go put some decent clothes on. We're going out for dinner."

At John's pronouncement, Sherlock's eyes widen.

"You really have no idea how enticing you smell right now, do you?" His voice is not playful or seductive at all. Merely concerned.

"You'll be with me, it's fine. It's stuffy in here, I want some air."

It's clear Sherlock is none too keen on this plan, but he shrugs and gets up. John follows him into the bedroom to watch him change, grinning shamelessly when Sherlock looks at him.

"Just 'cause I can't touch doesn't mean I can't appreciate."

As Sherlock is stepping into his trousers, he cocks his head at John.

"I would like to make one temporary amendment to our agreement. While we are outside the confines of the flat, I want to be able to touch you."

John groans. He's in the mood for fish and chips, not a quick handy under a greasy table. His face must fall, because Sherlock puts up one placating hand.

"Not in that sense. I just want to... mark my territory." His face looks pinched as he says it, as if he knows how the words will chafe John. "Just because of your pheromones. It will save us a lot of hassle."

John sighs and nods. It will make things easier. And, if he's honest with himself, the feel of Sherlock's hand on the small of his back would be more than welcome right now.

Thankfully, the trip to and from the chippy is mostly uneventful. John is not harassed by any hormonal Alphas. Well, none save Sherlock, of course. Sherlock's hand started out just above the tops of John's jeans, resting peacefully. It was not long, though, before his thumb had started drawing small circles in the tip at the base of John's spine. John had tried to fight it, but as he began to melt into the contact, Sherlock had gone to town, dipping the tips of those long bloody fingers of his into the waistband of John's jeans, and then his pants, drawing maddening little patterns on the swell of John's arse.

By the time they get back to the flat, John is trembling, aching with the urge to strip down and tear Sherlock's shirt off him, tear Sherlock's stupid smug smile off him. He bounds up the stairs and debates slamming the door shut, leaving Sherlock trapped in the stairwell, because he's not sure he can look at him without pouncing.

Instead, he marches resolutely into the kitchen and opens the fridge. He'd intended to grab a beer but the cold air is so bracing and refreshing he sticks his head in and takes a deep breath. It's enough to settle his frayed nerves, to dull the ache in his groin just a fraction.

He's still standing like that when Sherlock comes in and laughs.

"Your hypocrisy astounds me, John."

Confused, John closes the fridge and turns around. He cocks his head at Sherlock questioningly, biting the inside of his cheek because fuck if Sherlock doesn't look bloody gorgeous right now.

"I could have sworn you told me to stop putting heads in the fridge, and yet there you were."

"Not the same, you arse." John grins, and reaches out to stroke Sherlock's cheek affectionately. He barely catches himself in time; the gesture was so natural and instinctual.

"Ugh, sod it, Sherlock. I'm going to go take another shower. A cold one. And then I am going to get into bed and read, and you're going to sit on top of the covers and work or whatever, so I can keep an eye on you."

"In your state, do you really think bed is the best place for either of us? Or are you simply agreeing to end this silly bet, and acknowledging that I have the superior willpower."

"Never. I'm just tired." And, really, it's the truth. One of the things they never tell you about going into heat is how weary, how bone-tired it makes you. Especially if you're not being distracted. It's like every fibre of your body is pulling you towards your chosen mate, and fighting against that is bloody exhausting.

John spends as long as he can in the uncomfortably cold shower, and thankfully it pretty much kills his rampant hormonal urges. He's clammy and unpleasant, his body lubricating itself uselessly, but scrubbing it all away helps immensely. He's nearly in a good mood when he steps out of the shower and pulls on a fresh, clean pair of pyjama bottoms and a new cotton vest.

He steps into the bedroom, and Sherlock has apparently taken his advice and set up camp on the far side of the bed. His laptop's across his thighs, and John finds himself thankful that it is, because Sherlock is apparently completely naked. A quick glance at his exposed hip confirms that no, he's not wearing a shred of clothing.

With a frustrated sigh, John drops onto his side of the bed.

"I suppose it would be too much to ask for you to at least put on a pair of pants?"

"I never wear them to bed. I prefer my cock remain unfettered." He articulates the hard end of _cock_ in a carefully calculated way that goes straight to John's own. Damn that voice of his. John groans and curls up on his side, away from Sherlock. Why had he suggested this stupid bet anyway? Furthermore, why won't his pride just let him lose?


	3. Chapter 3

The next morning dawns early and John is painfully stiff. _Everywhere_. Sherlock is nowhere to be found, which is probably for the best. John's cock is rock-hard and throbbing, arching away from his body in an obscene, leaking curve. The head is sticking out above the top of his clothing, desperately seeking attention. He palms himself roughly, groaning at the combined pain and relief, and tries to relax it into submission without getting himself off. He manages to get it down somewhat, and tucks it forcefully into his pants.

He gets up and rubs his eyes, and groans as a needy, desperate cramp runs from his belly up his spine. His internal muscles have started to spasm, seeking out a cock, a knot, they're not going to find. He shrugs into a thin, worn jumper, and even the soft brush of the knit is enough to give him gooseflesh in this state.

"Augh! Fuck!" John's shout is one of frustration more than of actual discomfort.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock's voice, mildly concerned, low, and unexpectedly rough, carries out from the hallway.

John gets up and runs his hands through his hair. His pants are damp, clinging to the curves of his arse, but he can't be bothered to change them. He pads down the hall.

"Fine, fine." For relative values of _fine_ anyway.

When he gets into the lounge, the tableau laid out for him is like a lead pipe to the knees. He grips the wall for support, his thighs trembling, his cock twitching infuriatingly back to full hardness in no time at all.

Sherlock is lying on the sofa in yesterday's uniform -- red robe, black bottoms, nothing else -- only today there's a slight variation. The pyjama bottoms have been pulled down to his thighs, the elastic waist tucked up just under his heavy scrotum. The tension raises his balls slightly, two plums ripe for the picking. John's mouth waters. Above them, Sherlock's cock is standing proud, pulling away from his body and demanding all the attention in the room. He's drawing his fingertips lightly along the length, gently tugging his foreskin down with every stroke, drawing John's eyes to the slickly glistening head.

Shakily, John makes it as far as his armchair before collapsing. He's mesmerised by the slow motion of Sherlock's wrist. Sherlock's eyes are closed and he's made no acknowledgement of John's presence, but surely he's aware of it. John stares, transfixed, for a few moments. His hand's found his own cock of its own accord, rubbing himself lightly. He moans and clears his throat. His mouth is painfully dry, contrasting sharply with the pooling moisture between his legs.

"I..." he coughs out, his voice hoarse and strangled. “I thought we agreed no masturbating."

Sherlock's eyes open a fraction, glittering impishly under heavy lids. He glances sidelong at John, his fingers continuing their inexorable trail up and down his thick shaft.

"No, I was quite concise, John. I distinctly said no _orgasms_. I have not yet climaxed, nor do I intend to."

John groans, resting his heels on the seat of the chair and pulling his legs close to his chest. The position traps his cock against his belly and he rocks slightly, indulging for a moment in the delicious friction before shuddering and stilling himself.

"I'm... I mean, I might be mistaken, but..." John's train of thought is all over the place, impeding his ability to form a coherent sentence. Half of him wants to admonish Sherlock, half of him wants to strip down and impale himself, to slide his aching, slippery arse onto that prick, so invitingly laid out. He shakes his head and digs the balls of his hands into his eyes. "'M pretty sure that's cheating, Sherlock."

"It's embracing a technicality." Sherlock, to any untrained observer, would look perfectly unruffled. Aside from the massive erection, of course. But John's become intimately familiar with Sherlock's arousal. And he can tell that Sherlock's breathing is just a bit too fast, his cheeks a bit too pink. His Adam’s apple bobs with every breath, a sure sign that his throat is as dry as John's.

Rather than sit here and suffer, John decides to exploit Sherlock's discomfiture and retaliate. If Sherlock's going to play that way, well then John's ready to give as good as he's getting. He trudges up the stairs and heads into the small storage room at the back of the landing to look for a specific pair of pants.

John had hid them up here when he'd first moved in, the vain hopes of keeping them from Sherlock. He's still not sure why he's kept them for all these years -- maybe because they'd been a gag gift from Bill, and he can't bear to part with them. They are utterly ridiculous; a pair of obscenely tight, bright red bikini briefs with stark white elastic trim. They were clearly meant for an Omega's anatomy. There's a ruched seam down the backside, no doubt to emphasise the lush, desirable arse cheeks. The pocket in the front is snug, never intended to confine an Alpha cock, even a flaccid one, let alone John's currently throbbing erection.

Squirming as another spasm of need wracks his body, John shimmies out of his pyjamas and steps into the pants and takes a moment to study himself in the mirror. The lurid red colour echoes the flush in his cheeks, in the head of his cock. His scarred shoulder, usually something to ignore or hide, gives him a bit of an air of danger that he knows Sherlock is weak to. In the soft light slanting in through the window, the fine dusting of hair on his stomach looks gilded, drawing further attention to his groin. In any other situation he'd no doubt look absolutely ridiculous, but now, with his hard prick already peeking out the waistband, his fluids already dampening the cotton, he's fairly certain Sherlock's going to succumb to the bet as soon as he walks downstairs.

He takes a few moments to calm himself. His subconscious is still screaming at him to give in, to let Sherlock do what he does so well, to fuck John's Omega side into oblivion, but John refuses to cave. The room upstairs smells less like Sherlock than the rest of the flat, and it's enough to soothe John's jagged nerves for a moment. He makes a point of mussing his hair up and bites his lip slightly, bringing a rush of blood to the surface. A quick check in the spotted old mirror up here confirms that he looks suitably debauched, but not to the point where Sherlock will think he's been cheating on the bet up here.

Confidently, he struts down the stairs and marches across the lounge, throwing himself into his chair. Sherlock is thrown off enough that he pauses in his little spectacle, blinking at John with wide, owlish eyes.

It only takes him a moment to compose himself, but that moment is enough. John knows he's scored a point. He pulls his legs up onto the seat of the chair again, but this time with his feet spread wide. He lets his legs fall open, giving Sherlock a clear view of his cock, uncontained in the useless red pants, and no doubt of the wet spot a few inches back. John's so worked up he's leaking copiously, and he's certain Sherlock can see the evidence of his need even from across the room.

Sherlock's tongue darts across his lips and John swallows thickly. For a moment, they are at a stalemate, neither of them moving except to try to breathe. The tension in the air is so thick John thinks he could cut through it.

And then it happens. Sherlock moves forward, almost infinitesimally. But there it is. He's made the first move. John leans back in his chair, cocky and confident, and waits for Sherlock to cross the room. Neither of them utters a word. For a moment, it really looks like John is going to win. Sherlock's sitting up now, cock still thrusting obscenely out from the waistband of his pyjamas, but a tad less distracting than before, thankfully. John can read the tension in Sherlock's arms and thighs, as though he's about to get up and lunge across the room.

It's at that precise moment that a loud slamming noise brings them both back to their senses.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade's voice carries up the stairs and John can't help the string of expletives that escapes his lips.

"God damned bloody buggering arse fuck Lestrade!" He gets up and bolts down the hall towards the bedroom, chased by peals of Sherlock's laughter. He manages to get inside the room just as Lestrade's familiar silver head pops onto the landing.

Sherlock, damn him, looks entirely composed, tucked away and managing -- impossibly, John thinks -- to hide that erection that John so desperately wants inside of him. Lestrade is either entirely oblivious, or being charitably polite. John leans out into the hall to listen in.

"Oi, Sherlock. I've got a case for you." John catches a glimpse of a manila folder flapping through the air. "But... Damn." Lestrade inhales deeply and John cringes. "How are you out here right now? And not..."

"I'll thank you not to comment on John's pheromones." Sherlock's voice is dripping with irritation, but John suspects he's quite thankful to Lestrade for interrupting them.

"No but really, why're you even sitting out here? How can you handle it?" There's a throaty tremble to Lestrade's voice that nearly has John running out there. He may not be an Alpha, he may not be Sherlock, but he's got a prick and right now that might just be enough. John pinches the bridge of his nose and tries to bring some sense back to his mind.

"Why aren't you...? Is everything...?" Lestrade seems unable to finish a sentence, which makes John feel inappropriately smug.

"I have things to do." John can't see Sherlock from this vantage point but he's willing to bet there's a long, thin hand flapping irritably through the air right now.

"Fuck... Can I?"

"Lestrade!" Sherlock's voice is a whip-crack, angry and possessive, and as much as it should irk John it sends another tingle up his spine. He brings a hand down to his crotch, idly palming his erection. He never thought he'd find being fought for so arousing.

"Just thought I'd ask." Lestrade's tone is unapologetic.

"Get out." Sherlock's voice is flat and terrifying.

"But, the case?"

"Leave the folder. If it's sufficiently interesting I may be along later. Now. Get. Out."

John is trembling with suppressed laughter and physical need when Sherlock barges into the bedroom, eyes blazing.

"Found that amusing, did you?"

"You have to admit, Sherlock, his timing was pretty spectacular."

Sherlock's eyes lower slightly, fixed on John's underwear. With the change of tone in the room, they feel utterly ridiculous, and John finds himself wishing he could run upstairs and change.

"I looked at the file."

"And?"

Sherlock's face lights up. For the first time since John's gone into heat, things feel blessedly normal.

"It is pretty brilliant, John. Three left female feet have just washed up on the East Bank. All in the exact same state of decomposition, all wearing three very expensive Louboutins. It's clearly the work of the same person. Possibly a serial killer with a foot fetish."

John flops down onto the bed. The hormonal fatigue is back, and he's itching for a lie-down.

"Go on then. You can't get into _too_ much trouble with Lestrade supervising. I am going to text him though. And he's going to trail you like a bad smell, and he's going to deliver you back to my door within three hours. If you so much as _think_ of masturbating, I'll invite Mycroft 'round for tea."

"You wouldn't." Despite his insistence, Sherlock's eyes are wide, and John knows the threat has hit home.

"Try me."

Sherlock scrambles through his armoire, looking for clean clothing, and bustles out of the room like a cyclone. John would feel a bit hurt but he's welcoming the reprieve as much as Sherlock is. Hopefully once he's gone, John's hormones will stop running rampant and he'll be able to relax for a bit.

He shoots off a quick text to Lestrade, explaining the situation in the vaguest possible terms, and settles into the bed. The bed that still smells like Sherlock. Indulgently inhaling that familiar smell from Sherlock's pillow for a moment, he rolls onto his belly and ruts against the mattress before getting up and climbing the stairs to the relative safety of his old room.


	4. Chapter 4

John wakes slowly, hazily, to the most exquisite wet heat engulfing his prick. He groans, hips thrusting softly as Sherlock hollows his cheeks and tongues the slit. John must be positively dripping pre-come by this point, and Sherlock is sucking and sucking and _sucking_ and oh god, the pressure is almost too much after so much build-up since the bet started. Sherlock's got three fingers sliding slickly in and out of John's arse, causing him to buck up into Sherlock's mouth. Hissing, John runs his hands through Sherlock's curls.

Every time John thinks he's about to come Sherlock slows his pace and tugs gently on John's swollen testicles, tugging them carefully away from his body. It's just enough to quell the wave of oncoming orgasm, and John groans and buries his face in his bicep. He manages to lift his head up and opens his eyes, breathing slowly through his nose to calm himself. He studies the ceiling, trying to focus on anything other than the glorious feeling of Sherlock's tongue on his cock.

Something is not quite right. He's fairly certain he'd fallen asleep in his old bedroom, but they're back in the main-floor bedroom right now. Did he sleepwalk? Why did Sherlock give in so easily? And, come to think of it, how is John so bloody _coherent_ right now?

Everything comes crashing down violently around him, in the way that dreams sometimes do when you become aware of them. John sits up in bed with a start, muscles quivering, body slick with his own mingling sweat and fluids. Biting back a scream of frustration, he buries his face in his hands for a moment. He lets out one single, pained, hideously undignified whimper before opening his eyes properly.

The sun has set while John was resting. The room is dark and cool and for a moment John is grateful that he's alone. Until he noticed Sherlock sitting in the corner, watching him intently.

"I wish you'd stayed asleep. You were writhing and thrusting at the air in a very entertaining manner."

As much as Sherlock's trying to sound collected and in-control, his voice is gravel-rough and even in the darkness John can see his erection freed from Sherlock's stupidly tight trousers. He's clearly been as affected by John's dream as John was.

John clears his throat, wishing for a glass of water. Or a vibrator. Or, really, for Sherlock to finish stripping down and lunge at him.

"Glad you enjoyed the show." He rolls his eyes and grins affectionately. He's a bit dizzy, from the constant flush of hormones and the lack of blood to his head lately, and he lies back down on the bed and rolls over to stare at Sherlock.

Sherlock smiles at him, a wide toothy thing that shouldn't be remotely erotic, but somehow manages to drive John even crazier. "You know, John, this could all be over. Just come over here and sit in my lap."

"Not gonna happen, Sherlock." Every single cell in his body is cursing John out right now, singing to him to do exactly what Sherlock says. His cock -- still rock-hard -- twitches eagerly, bouncing against his stomach, and his internal muscles clench and unclench, seeing out the thick knot of Sherlock's prick. John tries to quell the shudder that runs through his body, but he knows it's futile. There's no way Sherlock didn't notice.

John needs a distraction. He looks up at Sherlock, his face as impassive as he's capable of making it. "Tell me about the case?"

"Misdirection, John? Really?"

"What, did you not figure it out?" It's a low blow, but he knows Sherlock's pride will require him to argue. The ploy works. Sherlock glares at him, takes a deep breath, and fires off a rapid volley of gloating and brilliance. John's head is still muddled with wanting, and he doesn't follow as thoroughly as he normally would, but the words soothe him and distract him nonetheless.

The case was simple, in the end. They found the left feet on the South Bank, in the matching shoes. It was little effort to track down a man purchasing three pairs of thousand-pound pumps, at which point they'd found the bodies, and it's then that John really stops paying attention. He's not in the mood for death and decay.

As he's talking, Sherlock stands up and tucks himself back into his trousers. The conversation has abated his arousal as much as John's, and they both seem grateful for the distraction.

"I'll be in the kitchen, John. I brought home a few plant matter samples from the Thames that I need to prepare."

John wrinkles his nose and sighs gratefully. Slimy dirty plant goop on the table is just the thing to quell him back to fully flaccid. The urge to pin Sherlock against the wall is still ever-present in his mind, but it's much easier to ignore now. He nods and sits up again, rummaging for some clean clothes.

"I'll be down in a bit."

There's a strangely expectant expression on Sherlock's face that John doesn't quite understand, but he shrugs and bends down to grab a jumper.

"FUCK!" The expletive is deep and booming, and there's no doubt as to its source. Sherlock curses so rarely that whenever he does, John is instantly on alert. He's lost track of how long he's been sitting up here but he finishes getting dressed and barrels down the stairs, crashing into the kitchen.

Sherlock's face is pale, his eyes wide, but John's eyes are instantly drawn to Sherlock's left hand. He's clutching it protectively against his chest, and there is a lurid trickle of blood running down into the cuff of his shirt. A quick glance across the table makes the culprit immediately apparent -- one of Sherlock's scalpels has been cast aside, covered in blood.

John grits his teeth and steps forward. The sharp clarity of the surgeon cuts through the haze of his heat like the traitorous scalpel. He gets the first-aid kit out of the kitchen cabinet and sets it on the table. He lays out a sterile cloth, the suturing kit, some bandages, and wipes his fingers and palms down with an antiseptic towelette before holding his hand out to Sherlock.

"Give me your hand."

"No." Sherlock grips it tighter against his chest, bloodying his shirt slightly.

John cringes. "Why not?"

He wiggles his fingers impatiently, waiting for Sherlock to extend his arm again. Sherlock is a terrible patient at the best of times, but right now, watching the blood trickle down over his bony wrist, John's tolerance is incredibly low. It's at that point that he realises what Sherlock's problem is.

"For fuck's sake, Sherlock." Sighing, John reaches out and makes first contact, very pointedly placing his palm flat on Sherlock's chest. His heart is fluttering beneath the skin and John bites the inside of his cheek. "There. Bet over, happy? You won, you arse. Now give me your fucking hand."

Sherlock drops unsteadily into one of the kitchen chairs and proffers his hand. With a calmness that surprises even himself, John wipes away the blood and cleans the wound with another towelette. Sherlock had managed to drive the tip of the scalpel blade into the fatty pad at the base of his thumb. The wound is superficial and won't need stitches, and John lets out a long, relieved breath. He finishes cleaning the area and seals it with a butterfly strip before covering Sherlock's palm in clean gauze. If he lingers a little, taking extra care to run his thumb up and down the length of each of Sherlock's fingers, neither of them mentions it. If Sherlock trembles slightly with each stroke, moans quietly under his breath, neither of them mentions it.

Eventually, John releases Sherlock's hand just in time for Sherlock to lunge across the table and press their lips together. As John lets out a startled gasp, Sherlock drives his tongue into John's mouth. And fuck, but it's _perfect_. Why had they both been stubborn enough to deny themselves this contact? John wraps his arms around Sherlock's waist, pulling Sherlock into his lap.

His cock had behaved during the proceedings, but now with the warm, heavy weight of Sherlock digging into his groin, John's lost all hope. He can feel it thickening, trapped under Sherlock, and obviously Sherlock can feel it too. He can feel Sherlock's own prick steadily hardening against his belly.

Sherlock breaks the kiss, leaning back just enough to stare into John's eyes. His pupils are wide, his cheeks bright red.

"Stalemate, then?"

"Sherlock..." John pants out. "You're being generous. I gave in."

"Because your professional ethics forced you to."

Alarm bells go off in John's head. "You dick. Did you do that on purpose?" He's trying to scold Sherlock, but he can't help the chuckle that slips out.

"Not... entirely." Sherlock at least has the decency to look a bit sheepish. "I did slip!" He blurts out, eager to defend himself. "I just may not have been as reactive as usual. I could merely blame it on hormonal distraction. I've told you before that there's a reason I didn't indulge in this sort of thing. Now you have proof."

"You're an arse. Good thing I love you." John grins, nuzzling his face into Sherlock's throat and reveling in the scent of him. As he's doing so, he feels Sherlock freeze underneath him. John pulls back and looks up at him.

"Hey. You okay?"

"I..." Sherlock's eyes still betray his arousal, but they're clouded with something new now. Something John can't pinpoint. "love you too. I don't think I've ever told you as much."

John squeezes Sherlock's waist gently. The motion causes Sherlock to shift slightly, grinding against John's cock. He gasps and grins.

"It's a good thing I know you so well then."

Sherlock leans back, looking a bit lost and confused. John cherishes the look.

"You've never said it. But you have told me. You tell me every day. The way you look at me, the way you act."

Sherlock scowls emphatically, trying to hide a lopsided smile. "Are you going to sit here and be sappy all evening, or are we going to fuck?"

Rather than respond, John bounces his hips upwards, rutting against the curve of Sherlock's arse. Surely that's as clear as he can be.

"Bedroom, then?" Sherlock's words are a sub-vocal purr at this point. Despite the fact that John is nearing forty and reasonably skilled in the bedroom, he might just come in his pants if that keeps up. None-too-gently, he shoves Sherlock off his lap and stands as quickly as his aching cock lets him.

Sherlock steps forward, crowding John up against the wall, and John succumbs with a whimper. He tilts his head to the side, exposing the side of his throat as Sherlock drags his teeth along John's jawline. John can't take it any longer; he undoes his jeans and frees his erection. He wraps one hand around it tightly -- not stroking, just squeezing in an attempt to relieve some of the pressure. Sherlock braces one arm against the wall and wraps the other around John, stroking firmly down his back and cupping his arse.

The motion separates John's cheeks slightly, and he feels a gush of warm fluid soaking through his pants, nearly through his jeans. Normally it would cause him to flush with shame, but right now he revels in it. Muffling a moan, he leans forward and whispers into Sherlock's ear.

"Fuck, the things you do to me, Sherlock."

Sherlock stares eagerly at him with those impossible eyes, currently blown wide with desperate lust. Onyx, limned in mercury. John leans against the wall for support, panting heavily.

"Bedroom, then?" Sherlock raises one eyebrow, cool as you like, but his trembling voice betrays him. John thinks that of all the incredibly clever, intelligent things Sherlock has ever said, that has to be right at the top. No idea in the history of ideas has ever been as good as that one. He nods eagerly before dipping his head to lick a bead of glistening sweat off Sherlock's throat.

The scramble to the bedroom is ungainly and inelegant, made all the worse by John having forgot to do up his jeans in the frenzy, but they make it to the bed with no injuries more serious than a stubbed toe and some bruised pride.

John leans back on the bed and Sherlock tears his jeans down and off in one fluid motion that doesn't even seem plausible right now. But John's not wearing trousers anymore, and that's all that's important, really. He pulls his jumper over his head as Sherlock strips down quickly, and after what feels like an eternity, they're lying naked, legs entangled, and Sherlock is kissing John again. Sherlock runs his tongue along John's upper lip, tracing the contours of it, and John sighs, opening his mouth and flicking his own tongue against Sherlock's.

Part of John thinks he'd be content to stay like this forever, necking with the most intelligent, most gorgeous person he's ever known. Another part of John twitches violently, lurching away from his abdomen in a desperate cry for attention. Sherlock must feel it against his hip, because he chuckles deeply and John feels it reverberating through his sternum.

"Allow me," he rumbles, nudging John's shoulder until he's lying flat on his back. Sherlock scrambles down the bed and with no preamble whatsoever, takes the head of John's erection into his mouth. After the days of buildup, the constant surge of hormones running through John's body, the contact nearly proves to be too much to handle. He bites down on the inside of his cheek and grips the sheets as his internal muscles clench and release, trembling rapidly.

John tugs gently at Sherlock's hair, urging him to slow down, but Sherlock's having none of it. He wraps one hand firmly around the swollen base of John's prick, squeezing the beginnings of the knot he finds there. John bucks, driving his cock further into Sherlock's mouth, and he swears he can feel Sherlock grinning around his shaft, the smug git.

Bobbing his head, Sherlock purses his lips and slides up and down the length of John's penis, rolling his fingers around the protuberance at the base. John is panting heavily now, barely able to catch his breath as he tosses his head from side to side against the cool linens of the bed.

As Sherlock reaches the tip, he flicks his tongue over the slit, lapping up every single drop of liquid he finds there. John makes the mistake of opening his eyes to look, and in his frenzied state it's the most erotic thing he's ever seen. The whole scenario feels so much like his earlier dream. He feels his balls tightening, drawing up close to his body, and the familiar tingle deep in his abdomen.

"Fuck... Sh.. Fh..." He's utterly incoherent, but Sherlock seems to get the message. Rather than relent, though, he engulfs John's cock fully once more, narrowing his cheeks and increasing the pressure on the shaft, and it's like a barricade in John's body drops. The orgasm hits him like an assault, like a full-on invasion. Every muscle in his body locks up, his body rising up off the mattress from heels to shoulders as he spills repeatedly into Sherlock's mouth.

The sight of Sherlock wiping a drop of John's own ejaculate off his lips with the back of his hand proves too much to handle. There's another surge of hormonal warmth through his body, out to the very tingling tips of his fingers, and John feels his cock thickening almost immediately again. Maybe there are some perks to the Omega side of his anatomy after all.

Or maybe not, John amends, as he convulses, trembling and needy, as another wave of cramping desperation contracts his insides into a tight ball. He's craving Sherlock's knot, filling him and locking them together, and he hates that. He groans, hips bucking up of their own accord. Sherlock has flopped over onto the bed beside him, naked and glistening with sweat and pre-ejaculate. He is a feast laid bare in front of him, and John feels like he hasn't eaten in _days_.

"Fuck me, Sherlock." John gives in. He wants it. God, does he want it.

Eagerly, like some animal following his basest instincts, John kneels on the bed and grips the headboard, canting his hips to present his eager, sopping arse to Sherlock. He's mildly gratified when he hears Sherlock's sharp intake of breath, feels Sherlock's cool hands stroking his feverish back.

Between the days of teasing and torment and John being so thoroughly into his heat, there's no real need for preparation. Which is probably for the best, because by this point neither of them is feeling particularly patient anymore.

When the head of Sherlock's cock breaches John, rubbing against his inner walls, it drives a spike of need straight through his brain. He shouts and bucks, angling his hips to pull Sherlock in further. Teasingly, Sherlock grabs John, wrapping his strong fingers around John's waist and holding him in place as he thrusts in and out slowly. John's certain he can feel every ridge, every vein of Sherlock's cock as it rubs against him, and he drops his head against his arm and whimpers.

John digs his fingers into the slats of the headboard to anchor himself as the steady thrum of another orgasm builds deep inside of him. Sherlock's thrusts are beginning to lose their rhythm, their elegance, and John knows it won't be too much longer. He lets his body relax, lets the veil of impending orgasm soften the edges of everything around him.

As John slips into a near-trance, he feels Sherlock's hands wrapping around his wrists. Bleary, unable to focus on anything other than the thickening cock inside of him and his own painful erection, John releases his grip on the bed. In one smooth, unbroken movement Sherlock pulls John up and leans back, so he's sitting in Sherlock's lap, still impaled on that blood-hot, furiously pounding cock.

Sherlock leans back, pulling John's back tight against his chest, and John is overcome. He can feel Sherlock swelling, knotting, anchoring them together. John's inner muscles bear down, clamping tightly around the swollen ring, further tightening the bond between them. Sherlock shouts, arching his hips up and driving himself into John as comes violently, splattering John's insides, marking his territory.

Trembling, gasping for air, John rocks back and forth, trying to draw the orgasm out long enough to trigger his own. He lets his head fall back onto Sherlock's shoulder, and it's just enough to bring Sherlock back to some semblance of awareness. He feels Sherlock's teeth digging into the tender skin of his right shoulder. There's a sharp pang as the skin breaks, and a vague awareness of Sherlock wrapping his hands tightly around John's own knot, so much like that first time they had sex, and John is utterly lost.

His orgasm seems to go on forever, cock thrashing violently as he comes, muscles gripping Sherlock tightly even as his erection wanes. John thinks he may even have blacked out for a moment. Everything is a bit muzzy, the way it often is after a particularly intense orgasm, and after a beautiful eternity, John's body finally calms down and he tumbles to the mattress in a sated jumble of limbs.

John stretches indulgently, enjoying the pleasant ache in his arse and his muscles before it settles into something more uncomfortable. He rolls onto his stomach and stares at Sherlock. Sherlock reaches over and runs his thumb across the bruised, broken skin of John's shoulder, a look of bemused wonder on his face. John shivers under the touch. It will hurt later, but right now it's just another reminder of their bond.

"You..." Sherlock looks hesitant again, and John reaches out to stroke his cheekbone. "You don't mind? I wasn't thinking." He furrows his brow, as if the admission is embarrassing.

"The only thing that worries me is that it might not take." He's heard stories of possession bites not taking properly on _actual_ Omegas, so there's no way of knowing what impact John's unique physiology will have on the process.

Sherlock smirks and John is relieved that he looks more like himself again. "Well then we'll just have to keep trying, won't we?"

John groans. He's not sure he can handle another round like that again, even in the throes of his heat. Thankfully, Sherlock seems to be teasing. He wraps himself around John, even managing to miraculously produce a wet flannel from somewhere and cleaning him gently. The last thing John is aware of as he drifts off is Sherlock's contented hum as he wipes the cloth over the healing bite mark.


End file.
